


Five Times Sherlock Scared John

by flight815kitsune



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Ambiguous Relationships, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:35:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight815kitsune/pseuds/flight815kitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock scaring John is not an unusual occurrence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sherlock Scared John

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Unregisteredmutant for being my captive reader.

1.

The fall had happened three years ago. And John, ever the good little soldier, had marched on. There had been long days at the surgery, meals eaten alone in a new flat. It was a small place in a bad neighborhood, but at least it wasn’t filled with old memories. There were women, though none lasted and everything with them was purely physical. It was a life. It had started as a way to pass the time until Sherlock came back. He had to come back. It had to be a trick. There was no way he would-

Was there?

Maybe he had seen but hadn’t observed. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances. Maybe his instincts were wrong. Maybe he really was…dead.

He might not seem healthy anymore. He wasn’t. There were bad days and there were bad nights. Nights when the same words, images. scenes played out and there was nothing he could do to stem the flood. He wasn’t hungry. For all he had criticized poor habits before, he found himself in them now.

He ate lunch, or at least took a break to keep up the ruse of doing so. Going through the motions.

He knows he’s being watched. At first it’s attributable to lack of sleep. Stress. Hypervigilance that his therapist told him was normal. Then he starts to suspect Mycroft. But if he had something to say or something he needed, he would go for it. One man’s need for privacy didn’t stand a chance against the needs of the people. Experience proved that.

He spots the edge of a shoulder disappearing. Hears the echo of shoes on tile. It happens the next day. The day after. He knew how to watch without being observed, and tries to glimpse the man watching him.

He didn’t succeed, but not for lack of trying.

It was a week since he had first felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he was tired of it. The one spying on him seemed to be a creature of habit, so he had a plan.

It was always the same hall, always the same time. It was a perfect setup.

He didn’t know what might happen. He could be killed or kidnapped or arrested. He had every reason not to be slowly taking every step with the grace of a tiger on the prowl. But drawing closer, he felt more alive than he had in years.

His step comes up short as his target comes into view. The familiarity hurts. Tall and topped with curls.

The figure starts, bolts.

He knows that gait. No. Too slow, too uneven. Tired. He pulls him down. No. Too easy to catch. Too easy to pin his hands above his head.

The fear he feels is overpowering. This was it, he’s finally lost his mind completely. He laughs and tears want to fall but there wasn’t time to mourn his sanity now.

Those eyes dance across him in a scan. Tries to speak to him and no figment of his imagination had the right to do that. It was never said that John was entirely rational. He takes a swing.

The second his fist actually contacts something physical, the instant the flash of pain crosses his knuckles, all doubt vanishes like smoke.

 

2.

It was the middle of the night. He had helped with a case for the past two days, and worked at the surgery before that. He was tired. He just wanted to sleep. Not everyone can be a young, constantly full of energy- oh look at me and my disregard for physical health- consulting detective. Besides, even Sherlock’s eyes had looked a little heavy on the cab ride home. He deserved a few hours.

He’s dreaming, about what exactly he couldn’t tell you. People and color and some sense of contentment.

Well. He _was_ dreaming, until someone is violently shaking his shoulder.

He’s automatically hit with the scent of smoke. Hot and strong with what has to be melted plastic. Chemicals that sour the air and something else. Something familiar.

Blood.

Everything turns into slow motion.

“John?” The lights are off and the voice is strained. A drop lands on his skin.

He reaches over to turn on the lamp and the light is blinding. Blood mats Sherlock’s hair, some runs down his face

Oh god, no.

Training puts him on autopilot: asking questions, checking vital signs. He gets Sherlock under the spray of the shower after being reassured that nothing would be made worse by water. The wet shirt is cast to the floor. Each injury is catalogued, cleaned, and covered (where required).

It isn’t until he passes a cup of tea to a bandaged hand that the world seems real again.

 

3.

It was a simple text, like so many others.

With Molly. Come quickly. –SH

He finishes the last few moments of his shift before leaving. He flags down a cab and tells the location. It’s a short ride and he’s trying to unwind. Mrs. Hamilton had been very difficult to be rid of. Convinced she had every disease known to man because she “saw it on the telly.”

The ringtone blares and he holds it up to his ear as he hands the driver his money. Had he forgotten to file something when hurrying out?

A bike almost bowls him over.

“John.” A familiar baritone in his ear. Blood runs cold, the phone clatters to the ground. He finds himself looking up at the roof. Nothing. It was fine. His hand was shaking. He couldn’t breathe. It was fine. It hurts. It was fine. He forces himself to pick up his mobile.

“Yeah?” and his voice is shaky, too. Wonderful.

There’s a beat of hesitation. “Are you coming?”

“Outside. “

There’s a grunt and the line goes silent.

He goes to the lab and Molly has the phone held up to Sherlock’s ear as one hand holds a pipette and the other is constantly stirring a beaker.

“Yes, Lestrade, the gardener is- Oh. John, if you could relieve Molly of her duty-“ John gets a nod and forced smile for taking her place. “-the gardener is responsible.” The head-tilt that meant he was done.

After an eternity spent stirring and dripping, he must get the reaction he was looking for.

“Aha!” He wheels back in the office chair, smug. His smile vanishes as he takes in John’s appearance. “You’re upset.”

He clenches his fist.

“You’re upset at me.” His fingers steeple below his chin. You can see where the pieces fall into place. “I will remember to dictate a text next time.”

Only someone used to dealing with Sherlock on a daily basis would recognize the regret in his tone and take it for the apology it was.

“If you can manage it.”

 

4.

He had simply stepped out to get milk. Milk and something sweet. It felt as though one of Sherlock’s moods was looming; he had barely put his violin down in the past two days. Convincing him to eat occasionally delayed the inevitable. Of all the staples he tried to keep in the cupboard, the peaches were always the first to go. Sherlock always took sugar in his coffee. Mrs. Hudson’s attempts at baking rarely went untouched. Even her fruitcake had been devoured.

John was not the master of observation like the world’s only consulting detective, but he knew that if he wanted to try and get Sherlock to eat that his best bet would be with something loaded with sugar.

There was a sale on cake mixes, and while the other appliances were often the center of experiments, the oven had been left relatively unscathed. There had been an incident involving acrylic paint that had resulted in fumes that were presumably unsafe, but the microwave had seen far worse abuse.

He made sure to grab eggs and frosting, and to avoid the chip and pin machine that had gotten the better of him four times now. None of the others offered any trouble but that one consistently malfunctioned solely for his benefit.

 

He walks through the door to their flat and immediately drops the shopping.

Sherlock is sitting on the coffee table with a barrel in his mouth. John closes the distance in what feels like two steps. Sherlock pulls the gun out just in time for it to be slapped out of his hand and slide across the floor.

“John?”

He knows his grip on Sherlock’s wrists is far too tight. He knows it has to hurt. The thought doesn't make him let go.

He lets out a shaking breath as he rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. The world isn’t steady and his knees are shaking. His eyes burn.

“Jo-“

“Shut it.” His tone leaves no room for argument. The thundering pulse in his ears is overwhelming.

“It-”

He squeezes tighter and the word becomes a hiss. “I said shut it. I don't care why I had to walk home to that but if it ever happens again I'm leaving and never looking back. I can't do it.”

The vicelike grip slowly loosens.

 

“I was confirming a hypothesis. The weapon wasn't loaded.”

 

5.

It had started like so many other cases. A body had been found under slightly unusual conditions and Scotland Yard's finest had managed to talk Sherlock into having a look. John had no idea how Sally had managed to do it, but with Lestrade on holiday until next week she must have offered something in her call.

They headed to a bad neighborhood.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the cab seat when they were a block from the crime scene.

 

The flashing lights helped them find their destination. It wouldn't have stood out otherwise, the dull grey rundown building so similar to those around it.

Their victim was on the first floor.

There were clothes scattered around the room with scraps of paper. Each piece of paper was covered with what appeared to be song lyrics or poetry with certain words circled or crossed out. John was all too familiar with the uneven lines that were masquerading themselves as letters. Their hand was shaking badly as they had written the words down.

The victim was lying facedown in the center of the room. She was nude. Her skin was pale, but marked with angry red scratches and fading bruises. Her hair was dark brown, a matted mess extending to her shoulders. She was deathly thin, every notch of her spine visible.

Sherlock crouched by the body, snapping on gloves. He starts his deductions: Mid 30's, single but with a series of sexual partners.

He moved the hair from her face and paused. It wasn't lengthy, but it was noticeable to someone who had heard it happen so many times.

“This was not a homicide. Contact me if you get an _actual_ case.” The edge to his voice brokered no arguments. He practically tore the gloves off as he headed down the stairs and to the kerb to hail a cab.

Sherlock stayed silent for the ride home. He sat in his chair and focused on a spot on the floor.

John made tea.

 

He places the saucer in front of his flat mate. “It wasn't a homicide?”

Sherlock looks up as though he had forgotten John was there and shakes his head. He moves to take the offering of tea and the china rattles as he goes to lift it.

He hadn't seen such a show of emotion since Baskerville. It was concerning, to say the least. It was a low, simmering sort of fear. “How could you tell?” In the long silence, John sips his tea.

He stares at the spot on the floor. “Obvious.”

“Go on then.”

“Track marks to her arms, wrist, and thighs. Long-term addict. The scratches were self-inflicted. Formication. Tremors to her handwriting indicate a high dose. She suffered a stroke, collapsed, and died.” He clears his throat.

Realization dawns. “You knew her.”

“We had similar interests, once.” He quirks his lips in a pitiful excuse for a smile.

“Sherlock...” They didn't talk about this, just like they didn't talk about Afghanistan.

“It could have been me.” And the waver in his voice was terrifying.

 

 

+1

John scared Sherlock.

From the moment they had met he had worried whether or not John would move in with him. That farce of a drugs bust only intensified that. Then John had killed for him, and he was afraid John would be caught, or that he would have a conflict in morals and back out. As soon as that fear had faded, it was replaced with the terrifying prospect that John would leave.

Which was nothing compared to the brief thought that he was Moriarty.

Or the thought that he was so willing to die to keep him safe.

 

The fear that he would leave was stronger after that.

 

Eventually Moriarty threatened his life again, and the choice was obvious- save John.

John had not handled his disappearance well. He had left Baker Street and hadn't come back. The surveillance footage showed his limp return, his weight slowly but surely falling off. He began to look so tired.

His task of dismantling Moriarty's network was nothing compared to the uncertainty of seeing John again.

He had barely managed to avoid John's gaze when he first came back. When John wasn't where he should have been, he was terrified. When they hit the ground and there was no denying the broken expression on John's face, he thought there was no hope.

But John had come back to Baker Street.

Every small argument brought the fear that John would leave again. He tried to focus on cases and experiments. He had made a mistake and was thankful he had a doctor on premises, but seeing the man shut down and be replaced by the calm field medic was less than reassuring.

He had not thought about what bad memories would surface when he called John. Seeing the far-away look in John's eyes was enough to classify phone calls as distinctly Not Good.

Without relying on as many experiments, his mind had time to wander and seized upon the errant thought that if one mad genius could fake his death, what was stopping the other from having done the same. Of course, the angle was all wrong for survival and John had walked in on him.

He had thought John would have left then, but he had made him cake instead.

The last case wasn't even a case, and John had seen the worry.

He hadn't been repulsed by it.

John scared him because there was no reason why anyone so perfect could exist.  


End file.
